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“If you interrupted me to ask to leave, the answer’s no. If you came to fuck, strip and bend over the desk. Or better yet, get on your knees beneath the desk so you can put that sweet mouth to a better use than asking me questions you know the answers to.”
My cheeks warm. Except the cause isn’t entirely embarrassment but his flippant manner toward sex.
I spin on my heel and head for the open door.
He charges after me into the hallway and snatches hold of my elbow.
“Leave me alone.” I tug free.
“I fucking have been, trust me,” he snaps back. “Maybe that’s the problem.” I’m grabbed again and backed into the wall. He shoves a hand between my thighs and cups my pussy. I stiffen with anger and dread.
“Why do you have to be so cruel?” I murmur.
“Why do you have to be so goddamn beautiful?”
My eyes go wide.
His hand falls away. “What is it?” he demands. Furious at me, or himself?
“My grandparents are likely sick with worry. I came to ask your permission to contact them.” A familiar calm, cold demeanor settles into place. This seemingly collected man isn’t calm or cold-natured. In fact, I’m beginning to believe he’s the exact opposite. I swallow hard. “Please, Sandro.”
He stares at me, his expression unreadable. “I’ll consider it.”
I lift onto my toes, and before I can think twice about it, kiss him on the lips. “Thank you,” I whisper, before hurrying away.
A small part of me hopes he’ll give chase. Demand more than a chaste peck.
But he lets me go.
Two days later, and I’m furious.
His housekeeping staff has become unbearable. The eye rolls. Hushed comments. The dead mouse on my dresser. I consider myself a firm supporter of other women, so their hostility confuses me.
Sandro’s men avoid me, following Tommaso’s lead—when he’s here. Sandro keeps his most trusted employee busy, so the bartender’s rarely at the villa.
But what infuriates me the most is the length of time Sandro’s taking in considering my request.
Laughter drifts in through my bedroom balcony doors. I step outside and draw in the fresh air. It’s a beautiful morning, the humidity low, with a light breeze sweeping in from the sea.
Captive or not, it’s too nice to be locked away inside a bedroom, brooding.
Movement at the pool catches my attention. A man is swimming laps, back and forth, back and forth, his strokes fluid as he relentlessly performs lap after lap.
I watch and wait, knowing it’s him before he even pulls himself up to sit on the pool ledge. Even from this distance, I can make out his muscled chest and arms.
I loved running my fingers across his eight-pack abs, my fingers lingering on the valleys while my eager imagination ran uphill marathons.
Closing my eyes, I attempt to block the memory.
When I open them, I immediately wish I could block reality, and what I’m now witnessing.
A brunette housekeeper is standing by the pool.
Naked, her white uniform at her ankles.
My jaw drops as she dives into the pool, only to resurface a short distance from Sandro.
Fists clenched, I spin around and retreat into my gilded cage.
